


something something joint

by leedeeloo



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen, gentle medical content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/pseuds/leedeeloo
Summary: Phobos ain't got standard knees.





	something something joint

**Author's Note:**

> i started this ages ago and just finally finished it

It was his knees. The only thing he had left from home, really. They were weak when he was a child, some defect when he was born, getting worse as he grew and then an injury as a young adult finally forcing his hand to get them fixed, replaced. Back then, no one could tell, the patchwork of scars fading quickly. 

Under Sung’s care, however, they got a little more obvious. 

The oversized hinges on his stage costume were, as was most of it, just for show, just to look cool. But they  _ were _ right over the actual hinges, these little circles of metal on either side of the joint-- if one's finger was over it as he bent, one would feel the soft rumble of the joint sliding against itself, and the soft click when Phobos straightened his leg and locked his knee.

He liked it. Before it was some secret, fodder for gossip that the High Lord, you don't say, had knee replacements. It was a new appearance, however small, for a new life, a secret yet again.

But it was time for a check up, anyways.

Sung was prone to some mad scientist tendencies, sure, but he seemed to have developed a handle on that when it came to the care of his friends. Phobos remembered when Sung found out about his knees, the glimmer in his eye, twitch in his smile and how much that amplified when they needed to be repaired- but also how that all fell away as soon as anything actually needed to be done. 

Sung was all business while Phobos was perched on the medical table in the basement, past all the recording equipment and spare parts, in Sung’s ‘lab’. It seemed to be larger than the floors above, stretching not just under the yard but into the neighboring houses. He swung his legs, staring at Sung as he re-read the notes from the last check up, on a clipboard even. There was one bright desk lamp on, now pointed away from Phobos, the overhead light off for his comfort, and a fleece blanket between him and the cold metal table for the same reason. For that, Sung was more of a friend than a doctor.

Then he put down the clipboard and grabbed Phobos by the ankle and knee, thumb and middle finger touching the joint, and raised Phobos’ foot, straightening his leg. He bent it back down, raised it again and let it fall. Repeated it on the other leg. Did the same thing again, but with a stethoscope pressed to Phobos’ knees this time, listening instead of feeling. All the impersonal testing was certainly less friendly. There was a point in time where Sung had explained every little thing he was doing and why he was doing it, but time went on and Phobos replied with eye rolls and sighs and frustration and it all slowly fell away. Now it was just silently tedious.

Until.

There was a rattle of a drawer, and Phobos perked up. “Your favourite part,” Sung chimed. Testing his reflexes.

It always made Phobos feel like a kid, it filled him with the same kind of amazement. And it meant they were almost done, so he could go upstairs and warm up. 

For all the excitement and anticipation, it barely took 30 seconds. A quick little tap, his foot flying out and then the same the on the other leg. Sometimes Sung would do it again, making sure  both were as fast as they needed to be, but this time he only did each once. 

Phobos started to slide off the bench, waiting for Sung to dismiss him first. 

“Alright,” Sung said, and Phobos leaped up instantly. “You’re good!” That was said to himself, Phobos bounding up the basement steps two at a time. Sung watched, just waiting to hear the click of the basement door. He went over the notes of this check-up, Phobos thumping overhead, Sung listening to his path to the kitchen, the front window, kitchen again and then finally to the living room. 

He settled in, the creaking of the house easing his analysis into a steady rhythm. 


End file.
